


trompe-l'œil

by prinsipe



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magician, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinsipe/pseuds/prinsipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I heard you were a magician," the boy across from him says. He pauses for a moment and sits up, folding his hands on the table instead of under his chin. It’s then that Chihiro’s able to see just how young he is (Christ, <em>sixteen</em>) beneath the big words and larger suits. “Could you...could you heal someone?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	trompe-l'œil

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, chihiro! again. it's 2 am and i feel like death and the trend of me writing fics on a whim when i should be asleep really needs to stop. really.

Chihiro’s area of expertise is watching people. There’s a lot to be learned from just  _watching_ \--everything from body movement to where their eyes wander when everyone else is busy tells Chihiro more than a novel ever could.

It makes him more than a little uncomfortable to notice that for the first time in a while, someone is watching  _him._

.

.

His second area of expertise is deception. Some call it magic, others call it illusionism; Chihiro just calls it for what it is. He gives people tricks and they give him money. It’s a fair enough trade for him, anyway; it puts food on the table and in his stomach, and when that’s not enough, it gives him something to not think about. The tricks come easy. What Chihiro likes best about them is they don’t ever leave. The paper animals in his pockets don’t either, but those don’t count. They don’t make him money.

“I heard you were a magician,” the boy across from him says. The suit he’s wearing isn’t a cheap one, and Chihiro finds himself staring at the golden buttons that keep it shut. He crosses his hands under his chin and leans forward just so, preparing to negotiate.

( _Or,_ Chihiro thinks,  _pay money out of his ass._ )

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Chihiro says, stretches across from him. It’s not a lie. It’s never a lie. They’re alone with nothing but the sound of rain outside and the static it sends between them.

“Could you…” He pauses for a moment and sits up, folding his hands on the table instead of under his chin. It’s then that Chihiro’s able to see just how young he is (Christ,  _sixteen_ ) beneath the big words and larger suits. “Could you heal someone?”

.

.

His name is Seijuro, Chihiro could probably earn more by serving the city his head on a platter than by performing magic tricks for the rest of his life, and his mother is dying.

Magic trick. It’s a funny phrase, when Chihiro thinks about it (he doesn’t often)--magic and trick in the same span of words. It’s not  _right._

“The doctor said a month,” Seijuro tells him. The streets are so much colder when they’re empty, and the static swallows him alive. Chihiro lets it. “I think she has more than that.”

“Why?” Chihiro says, and Seijuro stops walking.

“She was just fine earlier. I know that people will die, but a month is too soon.” When he looks at Chihiro again, it’s apparent he doesn’t want to say anything else about it. “She’ll be fine.”

Chihiro doesn’t say a word.

.

.

Chihiro visits their house for the first time that day. It’s the large on on the end of the street, the only house that always has its windows and doors shut. The energy the walk to the top of the hill takes out of him is downright unfair, and from the top, everything else looks small. The static is softer there.

Chihiro’s no doctor, but one look at the woman in the bed tells him she’s got a couple of weeks left at best. He has to blink a few times to check if she’s actually breathing, and even then, he doesn’t know for sure. Seijuro is asleep in the chair beside her bed. His suit wears wrinkles rivalling the ones on the side of his eyes. He looks as if he’s deep in thought and worry. Chihiro supposes that’s not too far off.

It’s kind of stupid. Seijuro’s the one who requested a visit and he isn’t even awake.

Chihiro looks at the woman again, and thinks about the coloured paper in his pockets.

.

.

Seijuro tells him about it the next day. “Cranes in her hair,” he says, making an attempt with his hands to show Chihiro. “Bright colours, too. She loved them.” If he knows where they came from, he doesn’t say. Chihiro doesn’t take any chances.

“Huh,” Chihiro says, and nothing more.

Seijuro stops to watch him again. It’s still unsettling. “It grants a wish?” He’s stopped bothering with the formalities. Chihiro doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. “A thousand of them?”

“I guess.” Chihiro looks up. For the first time that month, it isn’t raining, but there’s still static in his ribs. “That’s too many, though.”

He catches a glimpse of bright orange in Seijuro’s hands. “I know.”

.

.

“I could teach you,” Chihiro says before he can stop himself. “How to make the cranes, I mean. For an extra free.”

Seijuro pays him.

.

.

His favourite ones are the red ones. Every last bit of red paper Chihiro has is gone, leaving him with a bunch of cranes. Everything about Seijuro is red, from his eyes to his hair to his lips. Chihiro glares. “You bite your lips?”

Seijuro touches them and winces, short enough for Chihiro not to say anything but long enough for him to see. He’s not old enough to be subtle, yet. “On occasion, yes.”

“That’s bad for you.”

Seijuro shrugs as if he doesn’t care. Chihiro guesses he doesn’t, not really. “I’ll stop.”

“You shouldn’t throw promises around like that.”

He doesn’t look at him when Seijuro says, “Neither should you.”

.

.

He runs out of paper. They’ve both agreed a thousand is too much.

.

.

There are two things Chihiro hates the most: watching people die, and watching people grow up.

.

.

Chihiro’s not a magician anymore than paper cranes are alive. He isn’t sure if Seijuro knows this, isn’t sure if he  _wants_ Seijuro to know.

(He’s going to learn eventually. Two weeks isn’t that long at all.)

“I can’t do anything for you,” Chihiro says at last. “I’m not a magician.”

Seijuro looks at the collection of cranes and not Chihiro’s face. He wonders if it’s deliberate. “You could try.”

“I can’t. That’s the thing.” Chihiro stands up. Lowering his voice, he says, “She’ll die, you know. How long has it already been?”

He crushes one of the cranes in his hands. “You’re lying.”

Chihiro smiles, edge of his lips sharp. “I’m paid to lie.”

.

.

He isn’t.

.

.

Seijuro pays him exactly three days after their last conversation. There’s no bits of colour left in his pockets, and a trick of the light makes it look like there’s nothing left in his eyes, either.

"Thank you," he says. "For trying."

"You don't have to say that if you don't mean it," Chihiro says, and takes the money.

.

.

He finds bits of coloured paper in the garbage later.


End file.
